Filled with Feathers and Bones

“Qwaa qwaa! Court is now in session! Please be perched!”

Judge Rukhis, a magnificent roc with alabaster wings, shook the elm tree as he landed on the apex. Angor, harnessed to a lower branch, shielded his eyes from the sweeping gust. The courts often chose the tree for avian and flight-capable litigants. Unfortunately, the administration had no such considerations for the legal professionals.

“Oh, I like him,” giggled a harpy.

“My husband got jealous when I told him I was going to court,” another harpy laughed.

“Such magnificent plumage!” praised the third bird woman.

Angor shot his flock of clients a warning glance and lifted a finger to his lips, prompting the trio to cover their beaks. The dwarf made a scornful grunt. The three young women, with dyed feathers and glittering bonnets, looked more like girls on a shopping spree than plaintiffs of a serious lawsuit.

He glanced at the defendant to his left. The pegasus, in a bowtie and top hat, clearly looked better prepared. His lawyer, a stodgy female orc, stroked his mane while whispering advice. Angor knew her. Shagratine Thunderaxe, better known as Shaz, was a woman with wits as sharp as her forefathers’ steel. Different tools. Same results.

“The court will now hear the complaints of the Harpy Mothers Association against Pegasus Airline,” squawked the judge. “Ladies, ladies!”

The three giggling harpies went quiet.

“Thank you,” said Judge Rukhis, casting his frightful gaze onto Angor. “Ensure your clients respect my courtyard.”

Angor nodded.

“Mr Hamfist,” continued the great roc. “State your grievance.”

The dwarf opened his suitcase. “Your Honour, since Pegasus Airline opened a direct flight path over the Underbasin Forest, my clients have suffered excessive noise, privacy breaches, and a general degradation in living standards from littering and liberal outdoor defecation.

“Ms Zephyr currently has her property on the market. Thanks to the constant noise and increased pollution, the best price she received is less than a quarter of the price she paid—”

“Objection,” interjected Shaz. “No proximate cause. My client takes no responsibility for the dryad infestation.”

Angor cast a quick glance at the judge.

“Sustained.”

“Your Honour,” protested Zephyr. “We’re blue-collared harpies. We can’t afford forest gnomes to deal with the plants!”

The judge swung his gavel. “Order, qwaa! Order!”

“Damn it,” murmured the dwarf before continuing. “Miss Easterly, who lives on a treetop, noticed most of her orange laundry bearing the bite marks of horses, most likely mistaking them for carrots. Moreover, she frequently finds feathers and horse dung near her nest. Her baby girl of eighteen months now has discoloured feathers and a wheezing chirp.”

“Objection,” Shaz shouted again. “Insufficient identification. The Underbasin Forest is teeming with homeless unicorns and pegasi—”

Easterly, the harpy who dyed her feather black, flapped her wings indignantly. “Well, she was perfectly fine until your horses started crapping on our tree!”

“Sustained.”

Angor bit his lips and pressed on. “Miss Southdraft suffered an even more egregious injury. In the short span of three weeks, two of her school-aged children and her husband were all met with midair collisions. Forget the loss of income and severe fractures. Pegasus Airline hasn’t even reimbursed their medical expenses!”

The pegasus neighed and stamped his hooves. Shaz quickly ran a hand through his mane.

“Your Honour,” said the orc. “My client would like to resolve the issue privately. Permission to use the treehouse.”

Judge Ruhkis immediately tipped over an hourglass. “Ten minutes.”

The lanky Southdraft, who had dyed her wings different shades of green, smiled at Angor. “Hop on, little man.”

“You know,” grumbled Angor as he climbed onto her back, “the only resort an airborne dwarf goes to is Splat Island.”

“At ease, handsome,” teased the harpy as she flapped her wings. “I used to deliver orphaned eggs to their adopted families dozens at a time and I’ve never cracked a single one.”

Ruefully, Angor wrapped his stout arms around her neck. Southdraft, true to her reputation, flew into the treehouse without so much as a jitter and dropped off the dwarf.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked.

“Well done. You’ve turned a terrifying experience into a rather unpleasant one,” replied Angor. “Come on. Time is fleeting.”

The treehouse was a cavern carved into the trunk of the ancient elm. Cool and well-lit, it made a cozy and inviting alcove. The atmosphere between the two parties, however, was far from welcoming. The pegasus, seeing the harpies, bared his teeth at the ladies who, in turn, perched on top of the table, sank their claws into the furniture.

“Mr Swiftnova wishes to extend his sincere apologies,” said Shaz. “He’d like to—”

Easterly stared straight past the orc. “I want to hear from the horse’s mouth.”

Perhaps taking exception to being likened to his flightless cousins, Swiftnova spat on the table and reared his head in apparent anger. Shaz yanked at his tie, which seemed to restore some composure.

“Alright Hamfist,” Shaz began. “You demanded 700,000 mithril. Goblin Insurance Co. assessed the collision damage at less than half of that. How much do you really want?”

Angor quickly waved a hand, silencing his flock. “Every last cent,” he said, sliding some photos across the table. “If that ain’t horse dung, then I’m an elven prince.”

Shaz placed the photos before Swiftnova, who narrowed his eyes at the images before turning away with a dismissive whinny.

“He says that could come from anybody’s rears and I’m inclined to agree,” said Shaz. “Look. Whatever rights you may believe you have, the Free Dominion provides freedom of flight and perching. Nowhere in the realm is a tree ever fully private. We’ll be fighting this case until the orcs turn vegan. How much do you want?”

Angor sent more documents skimming across the table. “Creature lab reports. Traces of myth-graded moly detected in said samples, which I believe the airline rations to all its pegasi. Unemployed horses can’t afford that stuff.”

Swiftnova brayed, bared his teeth, and kicked at the air repeatedly before finally nodding at Shaz. The orc, sighing, produced pen and paper from her suitcase. The harpies turned to Angor. When the dwarf smiled, they fluttered their wings in celebration. Moments later, the triumphant plaintiffs emerged from the courtroom to a wall of cameras and microphones.

“Stella Nightstar of Elven Entertainment,” said an elf pushing through the crowd. “Mr Hamfist, what can you tell us about the case?”

Angor cleared his throat. “Pegasus Airline has agreed to a settlement. No further comments.”

The three harpies, laughing off more questions, clawed at the air like a rehearsed dance. Four kicks. The exact number of times Swiftnova hoofed at nothing. 400,000.

“Can you divulge any details about the upcoming case?” Stella pressed, unfazed. “Will Lord Doomdragon appear before the judge?”

“I hope not,” replied Angor dryly. “His last appearance, over 800 years ago, led to two dozen acute medical emergencies and six wrongful deaths. The court was so outraged it immediately ruled in favour of the Kraken Fishery Concern.”

“How fascinating,” sang the elf, who then turned to face her camera. “Unfortunately, since Goblin Insurance Co. explicitly excludes injury and death attributable to demonic entities, this correspondent will not be going to courtroom 666. Back to the studio.”

Before Angor could step through the enchanted gates of courtroom 666, the stench of rotting corpses assaulted his nostrils. Tearing up, he gratefully accepted a mask from one of the gargoyle bailiffs guarding the door.

“Stick to the left side,” instructed the gargoyle. “Archdemons to the right. Your beard is fire hazard.”

“Noted.”

The gargoyle wasn’t lying. The right wing of the giant courtroom was ablaze with fire, thunder, ice, and elements the Free Dominion Institute of Magic has yet to name. The archdemons were as varied in shape as they were in size. One of the most terrifying ones appeared to be a colour-shifting mist. While some were content to chat with their neighbours, others opened reality-rending portals and appeared to be in conversation with entities beyond mortal comprehension. Compared to that, the zombie stench and skeleton trip hazards seemed infinitely more tolerable.

Assuming his seat next to Rattles the skeleton, Angor glanced nervously at the courtroom bailiffs. Battle golems. Killing machines impervious to magic. Rumour has it each piece of their weaponry was worth more than the dwarven kingdom’s tunnel defence budget.

“I see your lord has deigned this trial not worth his time,” remarked the dwarf, pointing to the empty defendant’s box. “This might be quick.”

“I sure hope so,” replied Rattles. “And it better not take the court another century to enforce its ruling.”

“If the judge is the offspring of a deity, I’d say your chances are pretty decent.”

Then came a blinding flash at the bench. Judge Qwayang, a towering woman with alabaster skin, hundreds of arms, and even more eyes on her appendages, blinked into being. The menagerie of monsters shrieked in instinctive horror, with many scrambling to get through the door.

REMAIN SEATED! The booming telekinetic speech arrested the impending stampede. COURT IS NOW IN SESSION. TERMINATE YOU SPELLS AND PORTALS IMMEDIATELY.

Rattles, trembling, bent down and collected his bottom jaw. “Damn it,” swore the skeleton. “That’s been happening a lot since some brat with heroic grandeur came over and hit me with a hammer.”

“Get yourself together,” whispered Angor. “You’re about to win by default.”

The judge raised her hammer. DEFENDANT HAS FAILED TO SHOW. NATURALLY, THE COURT MUST FIND IN FAVOUR OF—

A portal in the defendant’s corner buzzed into being. Emerging from it was a young woman in a suit, her tail wrapped around her waist where a belt would usually be. Her jet-black hair, tied in a bun, made a stunning contrast to her red skin. Hurriedly, she dropped a heap of documents onto the table.

“Your Divinity,” she began. “Delamia Doomdragon. Apologies for being late, but I was hired on only thirty minutes ago. The man who was to defend my father inexplicably vanished after demanding advanced payments for his services.”

Angor pounced. “Your circumstances are irrelevant. Failing to show on time—”

SOME TARDINESS I CAN TOLERATE. Interrupted Judge Qwayang. WHAT WILL NOT BE TOLERATED, MISS DOOMDRAGON, IS YOUR BLATANT DISREGARD FOR COMPULSORY EXPOSURE.

The demoness seemed to shrink at the declaration. “Your Divinity, that law—”

IS VERY CLEAR. The judge waved a dozen arms. A SUCCUBUS IN COURT MUST BARE THEIR SKIN SO TO PROVE THAT THEY HAVE NOT INVOKED THEIR SEDUCTION CHARM.

“It is discriminatory and humiliating.”

WE ARE NOT HERE TO LEGISLATE.

Sighing, Delamia stripped down to her sports bra and brief. Judge Qwayang bobbed her head.

THE COURT WILL NOT HEAR THE GRIEVANCE OF THE UNION OF THE UNDEAD LEGION AGAINST THE DOOMDRAGON ESTATE.

Angor smoothed his coat and gestured Rattles into the witness stand.

“Mr Rattles,” boomed the dwarf. “As a soldier who has guarded the Doomdragon Estate for over two centuries, when was the last time you were paid?”

“Never.”

“When did you last receive time off?”

“Before I died.”

“Have you at least received a coffin allowance as all undead creatures are entitled to?”

“All coffins are self-financed.”

“What of graveyard maintenance and tombstone repairs?”

“It’s been five decades since I lodged a request for pumps to drain the burial grounds of holy water.”

“So, you have not been able to bury yourselves during bedtime?”

“Nobody has!” exclaimed Rattles, who needed a moment to collect his bottom jaw again. “Our zombies can’t even get a good night’s rest because of the hounds and crows picking at them.”

Angor folded his arms and nodded. “And what is your opinion of Lord Doomdragon?”

“He is an incompetent tyrant—”

Delamia’s tail, no longer wrapped around her waist, sprang upwards like a spear. “Objection, Relevance!”

SUSTAINED.

Angor sniggered. “No further questions.”

As the succubus took centre stage, she shot Angor an annoyed look before fixing her fiery gaze onto Rattles, causing the skeleton to duck for cover.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” she sang, her tail swishing. “We’re all equals here. Why, you don’t even need to call me princess.”

The skeleton, straightening in his chair, did not stop trembling. From his empty eye sockets, he tracked the Doomdragon Princess as she levitated towards the impossibly tall bench and presented the thousand-arm deity with a file.

“Objection!” Angor yelled. “The Doomdragon Estate has not responded with any evidence during proceedings thus far and cannot introduce new evidence at this stage of the trial.”

“Your Divinity,” replied Delamia, still airborne. “We only came into this evidence this morning while surveying the Undead Legion’s graveyard.”

OVERRULED.

A nervous ambience infected the undead gallery. The demons, who seemed content ogling the princess, leaned in. Angor swallowed.

“Your Divinity,” hummed Delamia, “the lamentable state of the Undead Legion is not the result of a negligent warlord, but the result of the union’s sustained and systematic corruption. And who better to explain that than the treasurer, Mr Rattles himself.

“Exhibit A contains a set of recently uncovered receipts. It appears Mr Rattles has quite a taste for luxury. For the last five years, he was purchasing myth-graded milk from the Golden Minotaur Ranch. Are these the accounts of a struggling union?”

“It’s m-m-medicinal,” said Rattles, whose bottom jaw clattered to the ground again. Delamia scooped up the bone and handed it back to him. “T-thank you. Many comrades and I suffered p-p-permanent fractures when a human hooligan ploughed through our homes.”

“I remember that,” replied Delamia. “Is this prescribed medication from a qualified lich doctor?”

“W-we can’t afford that!”

“So no.”

Rattles lowered his head. “No.”

Angor squeezed a smile as Rattles exited the witness box. “Hey, your case is solid. Just no more surprises, okay?” With that, the dwarf hopped to his feet. “Your Divinity, I’d like to summon my next witness, Ms Zamba Zombroid, the head nurse of the Undead Legion.”

While the court waited for the plump zombie in a dirty, pink nurse outfit to lumber into the witness box, Angor stole a glance at Delamia, who had opened a portal next to her pointy ear as she frantically flipped through her documents.

“Miss Zombroid,” said Angor. “As the head nurse of an undead army, how many injuries do you treat a day?”

“Hundreds is what I’d like to say,” she moaned. “We’re chronically short-staffed and our supplies are not nearly as bountiful as Princess over there, so...” she began counting with her fingers. “A dozen a day, maybe. The rest have to find private providers.”

“And how many of these injuries, would you say, is the result of capital punishment?”

Delamia’s tail twitched.

“I... I don’t count. Zombie math, you know.”

“Miss Zombroid, you stand before a divine being,” pressed Angor. “Please answer the question.” He frowned as the zombie continued to fidget. “Miss Zombroid, are you afraid?”

All of Judge Qwayang’s eyes leered towards the zombie.

“Miss Zombroid, I ask you again,” repeated Angor. “Do you fear an honest answer could lead to reprisal?”

Delamia shot to her feet. “Objection! That’s conjecture!”

OVERRULED. The judge waved her arms almost like a fan. THE COURT HAS COMPREHENSIVE WITNESS PROTECTION. ANSWER THE QUESTION.

“More than... half,” answered Zamba, staring at the floor. “Burns, fractures, mutilations, and oh, test subjects for new spells and weapons. We feel no pain... but little Bonesy has never been the same since a baby cerberus took his sword arm.”

After Delamia declined to question the nurse, the court went into recess. However, with none of the demons permitted outside, the tension lingered.

“Now for my third witness,” Angor opened as soon as Judge Qwayang clapped her hands. “Baron Pablo Haemophil, drill sergeant of the Undead Legion.”

A cauldron of bats converged upon the witness box, forming into a tall man with a sickly pale complexion. He made a sweeping bow to the gallery.

“Baron,” said Angor quickly before the witness could do anything else. “It is your job whip the recently deceased into fearsome warriors, yes?”

“Most certainly,” replied the vampire, beaming. “Why I’d put the good lads through—”

“Why is your legion down to half strength compared to this time last year?”

The vampire’s sigh smelled of rotten meat. “Fresh corpses have not been forthcoming and acquisition has been difficult. Citizens of the Free Dominion no longer bury their loved ones next to the Doomdragon Estate. But all our lads are such wonderful—”

Angor waved a frustrated hand. “It seems to that you’ve suffered considerable attrition despite a similar number of raids from heroes. Why’s that?”

“Lord Doomdragon vanquished Lord Dullahan earlier this year,” boasted Pablo, as if wishing to take credit for the victory. “Our legion was first to charge the mine field. I could not be prouder—"

STAY ON TOPIC!

The baron shuddered, then, perhaps in defiance, pumped a fist in the air.

“And who ordered the charge?” enquired Angor.

Pablo beamed. “Why Lord Doomdragon, of course.”

“And nobody protested?”

“I should hope not!”

Angor blinked. “No more... questions.”

Pablo spent his remaining time heaping praise on Delamia until the judge threatened him with one of the golems. Delamia then summoned a train of eldritch witnesses to testify for her father’s numerous “achievements” until the clock rang, bringing the day to an end.

With the demons teleporting back to their realms and the Undead Legion crammed into a bus, Angor strode out of the courts alongside Delamia to the waiting cameras. Before the dwarf could stick the journalists onto his rival, the succubus flew off, causing Stella Nightstar to shriek in despair.

“Princess Doomdragon has vanished into the night sky,” said Stella, suppressing a genuine sob. “This reporter has sought her autograph for three centuries but tonight was not to be.” Wiping her eyes, she turned to Angor. “Mr Hamfist, word has it the case remains open.”

Angor lit a cigar. “Yeah.”

“What of the Undead Legion’s accounting scandal?”

“Unsubstantiated.”

“Do you like your chances?”

“No comment.”

“Many fans of Princess Doomdragon would like to hear you opinion of her.”

“You mean you.”

The elf nodded. “Including me.”

Blowing smoke at Stella, Angor fought his way through the crowd and hopped into the nearest taxi. He did not remember going home, falling asleep, or kissing his wife before he left for work the following morning. His scrambled mind did not fully come together until a buzz from his phone drew his attention to a headline.

“Is the Undead Legion Finally Dead? Bombshell revelations in Union of the Undead Legion vs The Doomdragon Estate,” read Angor beneath his breath. “The Union in turmoil… incompetent commanders ousted… treasurer under arrest for embezzlement…”

Angor cursed aloud, heedless of other passengers on the train.

“Princess Delamia Doomdragon withdraws… case now in indefinite limbo.”

The dwarf switched off his phone. He needed a coffee. Until then, everything will wait.